Read Online The Singing Fire by Lilian Nattel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lilian Nattel
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deeper darkness was somebody else’s business and you ought mind your own. Nehama had learned to see well in the night, and she made her way easily, walking with Sally to the high road, where everything was bright.
In Whitechapel Road the darkness was layered with torches and the stalls with everything edible. There were gin palaces and public houses, clubs and shooting galleries, music halls and preachers saving souls, and every store that sold books or bread or hats was open till midnight. Nehama fed Sally hot pies and cider until she looked like a healthy girl. They watched the stilt walkers dance, and the puppetPunch beat up his wife, Judy, and the contortionist put his legs around his neck as he walked on his hands, jumping out of the way of the donkey pulling a barrow of cabbages. And their laughter made them happy girls clapping along with the crowd. Then Nehama took Sally into a pub she knew that was in an alley off the high road. One that was quiet and dimly lit and as old as the first king. The men that came here didn’t sing or play darts. Their wage packets were thick, and they meant to spend it all.
Nehama slid next to a man who had a glass and a bottle that was nearly empty. “Have you ever had two girls, mister?” she asked in a voice as hushed as the darkness. “And one never been with a man?”
The man slowly turned to look at Sally. “How old are you, girl?” he asked.
Sally only smiled. “She’s my little sister, mister,” Nehama said.
The man drank the rest of his bottle. “How much?”
“I daresay more than you’ve got.”
“That what you think?” He grabbed her arm. But she just smiled. And Sally smiled, and her cheeks were the red of a Spanish child.
“It’s all right, sister,” Sally said in her high voice.
And the man never knew how well she picked his pocket clean while they lay with him in the back room of the pub.
By morning, Sally had picked the pockets of five men. She was very pleased with her work in the high road. “The Squire’s going to be fond of me today,” she said as they were walking back.
“I’m not giving mine to him.” The wind was whistling through the cracks in the dawn, and it was singing her grandmother’s song.
“You’re having me on, Nell.”
“Keep your share, but don’t say you got it with me. I’m putting it aside for something.”
She wouldn’t have the baby in Dorset Street. It would be by the sea in a nice boardinghouse where she’d have a room to herself. After the baby was born, she’d carry it outside to the good sea air, walking along the pier and listening to the music of minstrels and bands. At the end of the pier would be the theater where she’d see the new plays, nursing the baby to sleep. Her baby would have fair hair like her sisters, and when the golden curls touched its shoulders, the baby would bedressed in a white cap and a white dress and she would have a picture taken of her baby sitting on a donkey. The photograph would be sent home, and everyone would see the beauty of her child.
Dock Street
Nehama hid the money from that night. The railway station was just a fifteen-minute walk straight down from Dorset Street, and she didn’t see anyone follow her as she took a roundabout route through alleys and courts. She hadn’t even said good-bye to Sally but slipped away in the afternoon, when everyone was just rising from sleep. Now she waited alone on the track while the red locomotives came in puffing smoke under the iron ribs and glass roof of the train station, looking here and there for someone who might have followed her, but she didn’t see anyone she knew. There were so many people standing on the platform, holding third-class tickets. There was nothing to worry about. No reason for her hands to sweat. She was just another person who’d got soaked on the way to the train station. The woman next to her was asking, “Is this the train for Brighton, then?” Nehama could feel the heat of the train as it
In Whitechapel Road the darkness was layered with torches and the stalls with everything edible. There were gin palaces and public houses, clubs and shooting galleries, music halls and preachers saving souls, and every store that sold books or bread or hats was open till midnight. Nehama fed Sally hot pies and cider until she looked like a healthy girl. They watched the stilt walkers dance, and the puppetPunch beat up his wife, Judy, and the contortionist put his legs around his neck as he walked on his hands, jumping out of the way of the donkey pulling a barrow of cabbages. And their laughter made them happy girls clapping along with the crowd. Then Nehama took Sally into a pub she knew that was in an alley off the high road. One that was quiet and dimly lit and as old as the first king. The men that came here didn’t sing or play darts. Their wage packets were thick, and they meant to spend it all.
Nehama slid next to a man who had a glass and a bottle that was nearly empty. “Have you ever had two girls, mister?” she asked in a voice as hushed as the darkness. “And one never been with a man?”
The man slowly turned to look at Sally. “How old are you, girl?” he asked.
Sally only smiled. “She’s my little sister, mister,” Nehama said.
The man drank the rest of his bottle. “How much?”
“I daresay more than you’ve got.”
“That what you think?” He grabbed her arm. But she just smiled. And Sally smiled, and her cheeks were the red of a Spanish child.
“It’s all right, sister,” Sally said in her high voice.
And the man never knew how well she picked his pocket clean while they lay with him in the back room of the pub.
By morning, Sally had picked the pockets of five men. She was very pleased with her work in the high road. “The Squire’s going to be fond of me today,” she said as they were walking back.
“I’m not giving mine to him.” The wind was whistling through the cracks in the dawn, and it was singing her grandmother’s song.
“You’re having me on, Nell.”
“Keep your share, but don’t say you got it with me. I’m putting it aside for something.”
She wouldn’t have the baby in Dorset Street. It would be by the sea in a nice boardinghouse where she’d have a room to herself. After the baby was born, she’d carry it outside to the good sea air, walking along the pier and listening to the music of minstrels and bands. At the end of the pier would be the theater where she’d see the new plays, nursing the baby to sleep. Her baby would have fair hair like her sisters, and when the golden curls touched its shoulders, the baby would bedressed in a white cap and a white dress and she would have a picture taken of her baby sitting on a donkey. The photograph would be sent home, and everyone would see the beauty of her child.
Dock Street
Nehama hid the money from that night. The railway station was just a fifteen-minute walk straight down from Dorset Street, and she didn’t see anyone follow her as she took a roundabout route through alleys and courts. She hadn’t even said good-bye to Sally but slipped away in the afternoon, when everyone was just rising from sleep. Now she waited alone on the track while the red locomotives came in puffing smoke under the iron ribs and glass roof of the train station, looking here and there for someone who might have followed her, but she didn’t see anyone she knew. There were so many people standing on the platform, holding third-class tickets. There was nothing to worry about. No reason for her hands to sweat. She was just another person who’d got soaked on the way to the train station. The woman next to her was asking, “Is this the train for Brighton, then?” Nehama could feel the heat of the train as it
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